On My Own
by Entwife Incognito
Summary: Angsty, a little confused, determined - perhaps like Lisbon during the Pike arc. A one-shot from her point of view, first person. I'm just dabbling, trying her on. Mild situations. Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from The Mentalist.


_A/N Thanks to all of you who review and comment, including guest reviewers. It encourages me. I'm grateful. A special thanks to guest reviewer Azucar, Sugar, whose words often fortify me._

I've waited long enough. I will burst. My heart. My brain. The skin that covers every inch of me can't wait anymore. Sometimes every hair stands, like it's reaching for him.

I'll be damned if I let him know.

Any part of me that can touch him first will start the chain reaction that brings him to my skin so that he can make love to me, confess the same things that I long to confess to him. Nothing I have can bridge the distance he keeps. It's way more than horny.

Let him have it. Take a mile, if he wants it. Asshole.

We're in the Art Fraud evidence locker. The buzz in my nether places is running like a siren and Patrick doesn't hear it, doesn't feel it. My rut is an unlicensed broadcast. It's been sounding for months, waiting for him. Exhausting. Nothing I do can satisfy this withering need . . . collapsing my insides like a can in a vacuum. There's a sound when one of its waves hits, like in movies when a nuclear bomb detonates. a sucking implosion that swallows all sound. I imagine myself shrinking to a dense black point. Without response or connection, I'll erupt like the Big Bang. My untouched skin feels stagnant. It sickens me.

I'm paying far too much attention to this. It doesn't really have to be Patrick.

There's another person here . . . someone new, Marcus Pike, and I turn my charm loose on him. He's putty. Flattered. And Patrick is . . . shocked. But he doesn't step near to start shit like he used to . . . jealous . . . back then.

What happened to him? I know he loved me. He came back for me. To be with me. The top of his list, even before his freedom. Is that just friendship?

I'm guilty. I did it. I was pissed, threatened. It can't be like it was. That's all I meant. Why did he back up to China? I think it's an excuse not to face me as a woman and work things out. Coward. He'll destroy us both.

But I won't take the first step. Gun shy. My feelings. There's no telling what he'd do with them. If he told me he loved me, too, how would I know it was true? He doesn't show me the man who would meet me as the woman he loves. I want to know that man. Maybe he doesn't exist. No. He has to say it first. I won't let him ruin my life.

Marcus wants to know me. Smiles at me, fascinated. Says I'm good looking. All I care is that it means he's physically attracted. He wants to have pancakes alone instead of sharing me with a crowd at this pizza party. Fun for a change. Yes.

Is that . . . Is that . . . crestfallen? I watch Patrick's smile dissolve as he sees I'm leaving without him – with Marcus. Gracious, he lets us pass and wishes us fun. I'm not doing wrong. I have to have a life. Why do I feel guilty? I won't let him! I'm going out and I'm going to have a good time. I need attention. And I deserve it. If he wants me, let him claim me.

Pancakes are the gateway to at least a one-night stand, a pause, a chance to decide. I'm quite accomplished at those, but a little rusty. Our eagerness to get laid makes things easy. Release feels so good, to have a man fill me, exchange clamoring breath, to touch and hold the firmness and the softness of male flesh in my hand. His touch is good, his fingers passably skillful.

I don't know why I don't want him in my mouth. Or his mouth on me that way. This will do for a while. He seems to think so, too, because he makes no overture either way.

Marcus is . . . appreciative, if not inventive or adventurous. Persistent. Good control. Regular. Regular sex. That's the thing. It brings out the woman in me and pleases us both. I hope I can enjoy this for a while. It's nice to have a companion. He treats me very well.

I'm fond of him. He says he won't pressure me. That's exactly what I need.

We're having a nice dinner. 'I feel we could have something special. Do you feel that way, too?' Look at my face, Marcus. Does this say, 'Oh, yes, darling?' I feel the snare. I always feel the snare. Okay, Marcus. Special, I guess, because I didn't have it before. So I demure and say yes, I feel it could be special. Someday. Maybe. I don't want to destroy his hope. Or drive him away. There's too much good in it.

His no-pressure promise must mean no pressure on him to wait, to time things, sense my real feelings. He can't tell, or doesn't want to see, when I hesitate, then go along so not to discourage him. Jane would call it lying. He knows nearly every layer of me, as far as we go. Marcus doesn't. I'm not sure that's his aim. He's moving me into place for a yet unspoken goal.

He takes my confused yes with a gleeful smile, and asks me to go to D.C. with him. My face, Marcus. Does this say thrill to you? Is this really about seeing if I can fit into some plan? Maybe I could.

I'm trying to move on from Patrick. It will feel odd. I have to give it a chance. So, I say I'll think about it. I'm starting to tread water now. I can't figure this out. And Marcus can't or won't read me. He can't help me. He has a stake in this that isn't about me.

Guilty. Deceiving myself or, more to the point, stepping out on my true love. Silly phrase. Too bad it's real. My true love is a receding wall. I deserve a chance, even for a lesser happiness. Maybe it will grow. Without pressure.

We kiss in front of the elevator a lot. Is it especially when Patrick is around? I decide I don't care. I need to focus. Marcus is my boyfriend. I'm the girlfriend. Greg was the last time I had that special place in a man's life. I'm ready for it now.

Patrick seems to be drowning in a sea of depression that pushes the envelope of his skin. And he will not speak. I can't let him drag me in. He's had every chance, the last one on my porch with cannoli. His inability to speak the truth of how he feels makes me cry. I can't accept less.

Marcus says there's a job opening in D.C. for me. I have to think. I have to think. He says no pressure. Next day he wants my answer. Says he pulled strings to get it for me, it will make him look bad if I say no now. I'm drowning in fear. He's my best chance to get away from this silent love and build something wonderful. I say yes and he doesn't see the cringe inside or feel it roll off me in waves. Only that I've agreed to what he wants. In the next breath he asks me to marry him and says no pressure. I know the pressure is actually at a thousand bars. I'm in the Mariana Trench.

Is the rush about getting me away from Jane? Maybe he's right. Maybe I need to get away fast before I chicken out. That may be true, but the rush is probably about Marcus, wanting to lock me down before Jane can come to his senses and declare for me. Wasted caveman stuff, Marcus. Patrick is more afraid than I am.

Two liars in the deepest, most searing pain imaginable talking about their happiness. I push Patrick, hard. I beg him, with everything but the spoken truth, to declare himself to me so I don't have to be so frightened of what I will do. Save us both, Patrick! You're the right man. I'm the right woman. He should know what I'm saying, begging him to say. Instead, he throws it back at me, hard and cold. If you're happy, I'm happy. What a sleazy answer to a fellow liar. Marcus waits in the corridor. I look back as he escorts me away, but Patrick doesn't turn to me. No rescue. I'm on my own. I have to make decisions that don't include him.

I give my notice to Abbott. Patrick doesn't care and I don't want the distress of facing him. I tell Abbot he must know I'm leaving, but Jane hasn't known me since we started working for the FBI. Is it vindictive to gloss over his need to hear it from me? Soon enough, he'll find out.

I haven't said yes to marriage. I can have the job and the relationship without it. With Patrick, I would want more. I need to stop comparisons with impossibility.

The Blue Bird Lodge. Jane pulls the same old shit. This time it breaks my heart beyond compassion, beyond repair. How could he?

Any other man might have been trying to romance me. Beautiful dresses, luxury suite, fine dining, big ass vintage convertible, walking the beach. But it couldn't be true. He's just going all out for my goodbye. Like a pony for my birthday. It's sweet. And I truly enjoy it. I told him I'd cheer up and I'm trying to look on the bright side. Until I discover the betrayal.

Unlike any previous time, I don't feel forgiving. I have to get away from Jane. Now! At least he hears the devastated hurt and anger through my hotel door, rejecting him.

In the taxi, I make my escape permanent, accepting Marcus' proposal over the phone. He cheers.

When I click off, I have to swallow the gorge rising in my throat and fumble to keep my grip on my cell. Why am I thinking of breakfast bars?

It occurs to me . . . the word 'love' has never been spoken between us, and isn't now. Not even as part of Marcus' 'oh, hell why don't we just get married, too' proposal, or my feeble acceptance, 'Let's do it.' Is it important he doesn't mention intent to give me an engagement ring? Seems it would be polite. I manage to thwart the threatening heat in my blood, the buzzing fade of a coming faint. I feel alone when I should feel euphorically united. Love could grow. It could.

I am solemn. Empty. I am not a bride traveling to her groom. I hope I can find my heart again in D.C. with Marcus, as his wife if it comes to that.

I don't know how many times I catch myself looking over my shoulder, even boarding the plane, to see if Jane is running after me. Fool. Idiot!

I mean me. I feel numb. How did I get down the aisle to take my seat? 12-B.

It's too late. No! Jane can't just waltz onto this plane and bare his soul. Not now. It's too late! It's a beautiful soul. He breaks my heart wide open for all the right reasons. And they all mean joy. I try to resist him, but why? I know this man. I know who he is, inside. I love him. Law enforcement hauls him away. Somewhere there's a giggle for how many times it's happened before.

He loves me. Can't imagine waking up without me. That's a forever thing.

We feel the same way about one another. There's only one right answer. His first kiss tells me everything. I feel how much he likes the one I answer with.

We don't surface for two weeks except to empty boxes.

The first time I wear a short little black dress for him, he's not warmly complimentary, like Marcus. He sidles behind me and his warmth presses in with his body. His hands are on my thighs near the hem, swirling the heavy silk up, down, around my hips, his fingertips brushing the swell of my sex, his lips soft and hot on my neck. The fabric vibrates against my legs and panties as he raises it to my waist, inducting desire when he rubs hard flesh underneath my cheeks, deeply forward into the cleft. Then, he gently smoothes the dress into place and, turning me slowly toward the door, adjusts himself and escorts me out for the evening. Endorphin currents of want juice the plump halved peach sliding between my legs.

Somehow I know that the wild urgencies I want to enact with him, on him, will be welcome and amplified in return.

With this man, I don't think I've scaled half my frontiers and he seems to live to climb with me, widen all our horizons. It's where we need to be. I had no idea what I mean to him. He thought I wanted someone else. Now our folly is made right.


End file.
